


Broken Bells

by ThatRavenclawBitch



Series: 25 Days of Ficlets [13]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: 25 Days of Fic-mas, Angst, Divorce, F/M, Woven Beauty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:55:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21678895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatRavenclawBitch/pseuds/ThatRavenclawBitch
Summary: “I wanted to give you something”Day 3 of 25 Days of Ficmas 2019.
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Series: 25 Days of Ficlets [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1201828
Comments: 21
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

It had snowed in the night, fat flakes falling silently so that the whole of Seattle woke to a slushy mess of white blanketing the streets and sidewalks, causing car crashes and injuries as far as the eye could see. Snow wasn’t a complete anomaly, but a White Christmas was rare enough to have people excited.

Weaver wasn’t one of those people.

He hated snow no matter what day of the year. The fact that it was Christmas Eve did little to sway his opinion. Christmas was just another day and one he wasn’t looking forward to in the least. The snow just made it that much more of a nuisance.

He jammed his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket as he walked the block from his apartment to the convenience store on the corner after work that evening. It was open 24 hours, including holidays, and he blessed the fact tonight. He’d run out of whisky the night before and there was no way he was weathering a full day off, completely alone, on Christmas without some sort of liquid encouragement.

The shop was nearly deserted at 10 PM on Christmas Eve and Weaver took his time, staring down the liquor aisle as though his palate was the least bit discerning at the moment. He just wanted anything that would get him drunk enough not to care about the past few months or the impending holiday or… _her_. For Christ’s sake he couldn’t even think her name without wincing.

The bell on the shop door tinkled merrily and Weaver turned to see a couple stumble in, their arms looped around each other, their heads together as they laughed at something only the two of them could know. The woman stumbled slightly and the man held on to her as they dissolved into another bout of giggles, clearly high on Christmas cheer and probably a fair amount of alcohol. Weaver glared at them halfheartedly before turning back to the liquor selection. He didn’t want to witness anyone else’s happiness, a clear reminder of his own losses in the past year.

He finally selected a bottle of something cheap and slammed it down on the counter, startling the half asleep store clerk awake. The ring on Weaver’s left hand winked at him from his grip around the neck of the bottle and he pulled his hand back, jamming it into his pocket once more. The clerk rang him up and Weaver threw in a pack of cigarettes for good measure, just in case he really wanted to fall off the wagon tonight. It wasn’t as though he had anyone to stay healthy for. Not anymore.

With his purchases in hand, he trudged back up the street to his apartment, walking briskly in an effort to be out of the cold. The temperature was dropping fast and the wind was blustery, nearly knocking Weaver flat a time or two. He looked up at the dark sky, the oppressive clouds blocking out the stars. It would probably snow again tonight. Bloody perfect.

He was still looking up, waiting for the first glint of a snowflake when he ran into something solid. Weaver reached out as a heavily bundled up form bounced off him, grabbing on to the person’s arms beneath their thick puffer coat.

“Pardon me,” came a muffled yet suspiciously familiar voice, one he heard so often in his head that he was sure he was hallucinating it now.

“Excuse me?” he said, focusing on the woman in front of him, the chestnut curls peaking out from the fur lined hood of her coat, the blue eyes just visible above the thick, woolen scarf wrapped about her neck.

“Belle?” he said, blinking repeatedly as though she’d disappear, a mere phantom of his overworked and overtired mind.

The woman tugged the scarf down, revealing the lower half of her face and removing all doubt. She was here, back in Seattle after all these months. And he’d had to find out by running in to her on the street.

“Jim,” she replied, her eyes blown wide.

“What--when did you get back in town?” he stuttered out, hating how rough his voice sounded. He was a detective, an expert at keeping his cool in the worst situations. He’d worked undercover for years. Keeping his emotions in check was the main reason he’d lived to the ripe old age of fifty-two. But he’d never been able to mask his feelings from Belle, no matter how hard he tried.

“A few weeks ago,” Belle said, her eyes shifting around nervously.

“You didn’t call,” he said uselessly.

“Why would I?” she snapped back. Then she shook her head. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t planning on coming back but…” she trailed off.

“But what?” he prompted.

“Things changed,” she said cryptically, wrapping her arms around herself protectively.

Her words hung there for a moment between them as they shivered on the cold, windy street. Weaver wasn't sure what to say, so he just stood there, staring at her and drinking in the sight of her like a dying man. She was pale, her face drawn. Still beautiful, but sad. 

“Look, I’m sorry for being awkward,” she said finally. “I wasn’t prepared to see you. I didn’t think I’d run in to you. It’s a big city.”

“Small neighborhood though,” he griped.

“Yeah, but this isn’t exactly your corner of the Heights.”

“I live right there,” he said, pointing to his building just a few steps away. Belle’s brow furrowed as she turned to follow his finger the mid-rise red brick building he now called home.

“You moved?” she asked. “But you loved that apartment.”

Weaver shrugged.

“It was too big for just one person,” he said. “Too many memories anyway.”

Belle sucked in a ragged breath, letting it out in a puff of condensed air.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she said, shaking her head.

“No, I doubt anyone expects their marriage to end like ours did.”

She looked up at him sadly, the lights of the city reflected in her luminous eyes. She was so beautiful, still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen no matter how she’d broken his heart. He supposed it was a miracle a woman like Belle French had ever looked his way in the first place. He was hard pressed to know what she’d ever seen in him. He couldn’t fault her for realizing how much better off she was without him.

“Speaking of which, I’m actually glad we ran into each other,” he continued. “I wanted to give you something.”

At Belle’s confused look he continued. “The divorce papers.”

Belle’s brows rose. “You signed them?” she asked, sounding surprised.

“Yes,” he agreed. “It’s what you wanted, right?”

Two months ago the packet had arrived in the mail, a thick sheaf of papers from Belle’s attorney with a note to have his lawyer look them over and respond with any changes. He’d known their marriage was over. Belle had up and left weeks earlier, packed her bags and hopped on a plane to the other side of the country without so much as a forwarding address. The divorce papers hadn’t been a surprise as much as an inevitability. Regardless, he’d sat on them for weeks, refusing to even read them through. Eventually he’d just signed the damn things, legal advice be damned. Belle didn’t want anything from him. She just wanted to be free of him. At least he could give her that much. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to return them. But now she was here on Christmas Eve and if he was waiting for a sign from the heavens, this surely was it.

“I can run up and get them now,” he said, starting to walk toward his building. “You can come up too, no use standing out in the snow and catching cold.”

Belle’s face was pale, her eyes blinking suspiciously, but she just nodded, following him silently.

The lobby of his building was warm after the frigid air outside, and Weaver unwound his scarf as he walked to the elevator, holding it open for Belle as she slowly followed behind him. He hit the button for the fifth floor and they rode up in silence, the ding of each floor passing the only break in the oppressive atmosphere. There was once a time, not so very long ago, that there’d never been an awkward silence between them. From the time they’d met the conversation had always flowed naturally. They’d been friends before they were lovers and Weaver thought he might miss that most of all. She’d been his very best friend.

The elevator finally reached his floor and Weaver said “here we are,” rather uselessly. Belle still hadn’t uttered a word since he’d said he signed the papers and it was starting to wear on him. She was the one who had left. She was the one who’d wanted a divorce. If it were up to him they’d be back in their home, a spacious three bedroom with a dine in kitchen and the perfect space for a nursery. They’d picked it out together when they were first engaged and everything was exciting and full of hope and possibility. He’d been left with a big, empty apartment that would never hear a child’s laughter. Not as long as he lived there. And so he’d moved to a studio apartment that was more economical for his single income and spent as little time there as possible.

He fumbled with the keys, getting the door open as Belle followed him inside. He was glad, for once, that he was rarely home. He hadn’t had the chance to make much of a mess since he moved in and other than an empty whisky tumbler on the coffee table, there wasn’t anything out of place.

Belle pulled her hood down, shaking out her hair as she took the place in. The exposed brick walls were a nice feature, a remnant of the warehouse the building had once been before being converted into apartments. The living room and kitchen were contained in one large room with high windows along one wall. His bedroom was in a loft up a flight of stairs to the left of the front door. You could see the entire apartment from the entry and while it suited Weaver just fine, it was definitely a bachelor’s apartment. It was amazing really how quickly he’d fallen back in to his old routine after a few years of domestic bliss. He’d been a bachelor for most of his life until Belle. He was able to slip back with nothing to show for it but the hole in his heart.

“Nice place,” Belle said, finally, her voice cracking over the words. “Different.”

Weaver didn’t bother responding, simply crossing the small space to the kitchen counter where the papers were waiting and setting his bag of Christmas essentials down next to them.

“Here,” he said resignedly, holding the papers out toward Belle. To his surprise, she didn’t take them.

“Jimmy,” she began, and his teeth ground together at the nickname. She was the only one who’d ever called him that.

“Don’t call me that,” he hissed out. Perhaps he was angrier with Belle than he’d allowed himself to be these past months. He could feel the anger now though, simmering in his gut, begging to be unleashed. He tamped it down as best he could. 

“We need to talk,” she said.

“Oh you want to talk now?” he demanded. “That’s a change from the last time we saw each other. You refused to tell me anything that was going on in that head of yours.”

“Well now you know how I felt the entire duration of our relationship,” she shot back.

“That’s not fair,” he growled out.

“Neither is having a husband who’s so used to keeping everything bottled up that he won’t even let his own wife in!”

Belle spun around, raking a hand through her hair. “I don’t want to fight with you,” she said. “I’m tired of fighting. It doesn’t help anything.”

Weaver sighed. He couldn’t disagree. He didn’t want to fight either.

“You wanted out of our marriage,” he said with a shake of his head. “I’m giving you what you want. What more is there to talk about?”

Belle let out a mirthless laugh, her hands going to the zipper on her coat.

“Well,” she said, yanking at the zipper almost violently. “We could start with this.”

She parted the halves of her coat, shrugging it off until it fell with a thump to the hardwood floor. She was wearing a cream sweater and thick black leggings, and Weaver wasn’t entirely certain at first what he was supposed to be noticing. Then Belle’s hand fell to her stomach, cupping the unmistakable bump burgeoning beneath her sweater. His breath caught in his throat, his heart beating rapidly in his chest as his eyes moved from Belle's stomach to her face, his mouth gaped open in shock. 

“I’m pregnant.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4 of 25 Days of Ficmas. "Your hands are like ice".

Jim was gaping at her, his mouth hanging open and his eyes blown wide. She didn’t blame him. It was certainly a shock and one she’d been through herself in the bathroom of her sister’s small apartment in Boston three months ago. Her legs had given out and she’d curled up in a fetal position on the cold tile floor, sobbing until there were no tears left in her body.

She had no doubt Weaver’s reaction would be different. He didn’t cry. Not that she’d ever seen anyway.

“What?” he asked finally, his voice rough.

Belle sighed. She could have broken the news better. But God he made her so angry sometimes and then she was spitting out words she could never take back. That’s what had gotten them in this mess in the first place, the fighting. It inevitably led to fucking and nothing ever got resolved. So she’d run away, and taken a parting gift with her by accident.

“I’m pregnant,” she repeated, running her hands over her belly. She was definitely showing now, in her second trimester. She could still hide it well enough with big sweaters and coats, but she was unmistakably pregnant once the obvious was pointed out. “Five months along.”

The shock on Weaver’s face gave way to something else, fury twisting his handsome features into something almost feral.

“Is it mine?” he demanded.

Belle felt as if she’d been slapped bodily by his words.

“Of course it’s yours, you bloody fool!” she exclaimed. “Who else’s would it be?”

“When did you find out?” he demanded.

She wished she could lie. She wished she could tell him that she was the world’s most oblivious idiot and hadn’t noticed her expanding waistline until yesterday, that she’d rushed right over to tell him. She couldn’t do that, of course. She’d known for months, found out only days after she’d drawn up the divorce papers he still had in hand. She wondered, now, if her fluctuating hormones had been at play in that rash decision. It didn’t much matter now. Jim would hate her either way.

“At six weeks,” she admitted.

“Six weeks,” Weaver repeated, his expression grim. He turned away from her, pacing across the floorboards.

“And yet you waited five goddamn months to tell me?” he shouted. “Would you ever have told me if I hadn’t run into you tonight?”

“Why do you think I’m in Seattle?”

“How should I fucking know?” he exclaimed, sounding almost hysterical. “You didn’t tell me you were in town. There was no warning, no phone call. You show up in the dead of night in front of an apartment you didn’t even know was mine? What the hell are you doing, Belle?”

“I don’t know!” she shouted back. “I have no clue what I’m doing! There’s no book on how to have your ex-husband’s baby!”

“I’m not your ex-husband,” he snarled out, throwing the sheaf of divorce papers still in his hand down on to the coffee table. They skittered across, falling to the floor in a heap. Belle’s eyes followed, watching the paper scatter across the living room floor. She could see his messy signature winking at her from one of the loose pages and it made her sick to her stomach, the end of their marriage sketched out in cold, black ink.

“We’ll have to have new ones drawn up,” she pointed out, still staring down at the pages, a train wreck she couldn’t turn away from. “Things are more complicated when there’s children.”

Weaver shook his head, his eyes flashing.

“I’m not signing anything,” he spat out.

Belle nodded. “Fair enough.”

Weaver just stared at her, his mouth set in a grim line. He was livid, barely keeping control of his anger. Part of her wanted to prod him, see how much she could draw out of him. Getting anything out of her husband was like drawing blood from a stone, but he was open and raw now. Maybe he’d finally come clean.

“Do…” Weaver began before running a hand over his mouth, taking a moment to compose himself. “Do you know what it is? A boy or a girl?”

“A boy,” she said, her voice small. She’d had her anatomy scan a few weeks ago. Ten fingers, ten toes, and no doubt as to the sex of the baby. He was absolutely perfect and Belle had wanted to call Jim up immediately to share the good news. She’d wanted to run back to Seattle to his waiting arms. She’d known no such welcome would be there for her, but it had been that moment that had her running back to Lacey’s to book a plane ticket. She just hadn’t the slightest clue what to do when she arrived.

Her relationship with her own father had always been contentious, a burden placed squarely on her shoulders. Her father was cold and controlling and Lacey had washed her hands of him years ago. But Belle had always wanted something from him, a father who cared, who loved her. She’d been paralyzed with the fear that her son would face the same, a lifetime of pleading for love from someone who just didn’t know how.

Not that she didn’t think Weaver could love. He had loved her, she was sure, no matter what he thought of her now. Showing it, however, that had never been his forte.

“A boy,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. He allowed himself a small smile, a shadow of joy across his face. “A son.”

“I was going to tell you,” she said. “I wanted to tell you from the moment I found out. I just…I didn’t know _how_, not after the way we left things.”

“The way _you_ left things you mean,” he said, his voice accusatory.

Belle rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes, because surely you were blameless in this situation.”

“Not blameless, no,” Weaver said. “But I’m not the one who ran off to the other side of the country rather than have a conversation. I’m not the one who initiated divorce proceedings. I’ve been right here, Belle. I was willing to make things work. You’re the one who gave up.”

Belle gave a hollow laugh. “You gave up too,” she accused. “You gave up months before I left. When you wouldn’t come home at night. When you’d deflect if I asked what was bothering you. I barely saw you for the last six months of our marriage. God, I actually thought you were having an affair until I realized your only mistress is that stupid badge.”

“Well, I’m sorry for not wanting to bring my job home with me. Would you like crime scene photos all over the living room?”

“I just wanted you!” she exclaimed. “But you were never there. Even in the rare moments you were with me, you weren’t there mentally. You were there at the start and then you just slowly slipped away, went from being my Jimmy to just Detective Weaver 24/7. To be honest I didn’t think you’d notice if I left.”

Weaver narrowed his eyes. “So is that what this was?” he asked, motioning to the scattered divorce papers on the floor. “Some cry for attention? You wanted me to chase after you? It was one big test that I failed?”

“No!” she exclaimed.

“You put me through hell for four months because you wanted a reaction?” he continued, picking up steam. “Well congratulations, Belle. I fucking noticed. You broke my bloody heart, are you happy?”

She stared at him for a long moment, the anguish in his brown eyes. She had hurt him, deeply. She didn’t think she could, but the broken man before her is evidence to the contrary. But he’d hurt her too, a slow and persistent breaking of her heart that he’d never bothered to even explain. She wondered what hurt more, the protracted pain or the quick snap, seemingly out of nowhere.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m not happy.”

The lights flickered overhead and they both glanced up at them. Belle noticed it was snowing again, white flakes falling past the window and accumulating on the sill. It was coming down hard and she was on foot. She should leave now lest she be trapped here for the night.

“It’s snowing,” she said with a nod toward the window. “I should probably head out before…”

“No,” Weaver cut across her, going to the window and looking out at the street below. “You’re not going anywhere. Even if we had resolved a single damn thing, you’ll catch your death out there.”

“I’ll be fine,” she argued.

He turned back to look at her, his dark eyes sorrowful.

“If you don’t care about yourself, can you at least care about our child?” he asked. It was the first time he’d referred to the baby as such. “Our child”. In spite of everything it warmed her heart.

“Of course,” she said with a nod.

There was a pop from somewhere beyond the apartment and suddenly they were plunged in to darkness, the only light the faint glow of the snow outside the window.

“Shit,” Weaver intoned. She could see his shadow moving around toward the kitchen, looking for candles or a flashlight.

Belle rubbed her hands along her arms, missing the gentle hum of the heater. Without it, the large wall of windows, such a stunning architectural feature on a nice day, was soon going to turn the apartment into an icebox.

She shuffled around in the darkness of the living room, looking for where she’d dropped her coat earlier and trying to keep from banging her shins on the coffee table, when her foot slid against something slippery. The divorce papers, still lying on the floor were a hazard she hadn’t expected, shooting out from under foot as she went down hard on her left knee. She let out an undignified little squeak as she tumbled down her hands reaching out to grab on to the coffee table with a loud slap.

“Belle!” came Weaver’s worried voice from the kitchen. A moment later he was by her side, one arm reaching around her back and the other taking her hand to lift her back up.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice sounding panicked.

“I’m fine,” she said with a nod. “Just slipped. The baby is fine.”

Weaver let out a relieved breath, his arm still around her and her hand still in his. He was warm, the familiar scent of him making her want to burrow into his arms and stay there forever. He’d made her feel safe once. She wanted to feel like that again.

“Your hands are like ice,” he said, dropping his arm from around her and taking both her hands between his. He rubbed them gently, trying to warm them up, and she looked up at him in the gloom of the apartment, just making out his features in the darkness.

“I’m sorry,” she said, tears welling in her eyes and threatening to spill over. It was easier to be honest in the dark. There was something about the quiet stillness, the fact that she couldn’t quite see his face, that made her want to tell him the truth. “I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the baby.”

Weaver’s hands stilled, just cupping hers gently.

“I’m sorry I was a lousy husband,” he said. “You deserve better. You always deserved better.”

“I just wanted you,” she said, the tears falling in earnest now. “Why did you shut me out?”

Weaver breathed in a shaky breath, his eyes glinting wetly. Perhaps he could cry after all.

“In my line of work..." he began, then shook his head. "I see so many things, so many dark things. I never want to bring it home, but sometimes it's hard to shake. I'm not fit company most days." 

"I don't care if you're fit company," Belle said. "If you don't come home, if you don't let me share your burdens, you'll drown in them. It'll just make it worse." 

He blinked rapidly.

“I’m not used to having someone care about me.”

“I do care,” she said, pulling her hands out of his to cup his cheeks instead. She could feel his stubble beneath her fingertips, the gentle rasp of his five o’clock shadow. She’d loved the feel of it against her cheeks, her breasts, her thighs. God she’d loved him. She never stopped.

His hands found their way to her hips, his thumbs stroking through the fabric of her sweater.

“I know,” he said. He bowed his head and for a moment Belle thought he might kiss her. Instead he just pressed his forehead to hers, his skin warm and his breath hot against her face.

“I love you,” he said roughly. “I never said it enough, but I do. And I’ll love our baby no matter what. I promise you that, Belle.”

She shut her eyes, the tears still streaming down her cheeks.

“I know,” she said.

He let out another shuddering breath, squeezing her hips lightly before stepping back. Belle missed him immediately.

“Lets get you warm,” he said. “I have some blankets upstairs.”

Belle nodded, holding on to his hand as he led her through the dark and up the stairs to the loft. She could make out the shadow of a low bed and not much else. Weaver led her to it and she sat down while he rummaged around in the closet, emerging with an extra quilt.

“Here,” he said, handing it to her. “I’m gonna head back down for candles. I can make tea, if you’d like. It’s a gas stove.”

“Okay,” she croaked out. She listened as he made his way back down the stairs, watching him moving down below from the loft. He lit the range with a lighter from his pocket, casting a glow over the small kitchen as he prepared the tea. He managed to find a candle, a thick green column that smelled of pine and had once been hers. A moment later the kettle was whistling and Weaver turned off the burner, pouring the water into a mug. He was back up the stairs in no time, the candle in one hand and the steaming mug of tea in the other.

“Thank you,” she said as he handed her the tea, placing the lit candle on the bedside table. She blew gently on the tea before taking a sip as she looked around. She could see the loft a little better now, the ceiling mere inches above Weaver’s head. A taller man would never have made it work. It was like he’d downsized as much as humanly possible. Everything was sleek and modern and new, but clearly meant for one. Even the bed was merely a double, downsized from the Queen sized bed they’d once shared.

He was a single man.

It made her heart hurt. She missed their home together. She couldn’t sleep on Lacey’s sofa in Boston forever. Nor could she couch surf with friends in Seattle. She needed a home for her baby, but nowhere felt like home but Jim Weaver. There was no space for her here though. She had a feeling it was by design.

“You can have the bed,” he began awkwardly, the closeness between them seemingly evaporated now that they could see each other. “I’ll just…”

“Shut up,” Belle cut him off.

“Pardon me?” he asked.

“Don’t do the ‘I’ll take the couch’ routine, okay?” she said wearily, setting her mug on the side table. “I’m pregnant with your baby, we can share a bed.”

“Oh,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Okay.”

He sat down next to her, bending at the waist to untie his shoes before kicking them off into the open closet a few steps away. Belle followed suit, taking her own boots off and setting them next to the bedside table. They sat there for another loaded moment before Belle took Weaver’s hand in hers, entwining their fingers. He stiffened ever so slightly, but relaxed as Belle leaned her head against his shoulder, the leather of his jacket cool beneath her cheek.

“I love you too,” she said after a moment. “I didn’t leave because I don’t love you. Please never think that.”

“No,” he said. “I just work too much and take you for granted. Belle, if you gave me another chance…”

He cut off, shaking his head, unwilling to voice the thought.

She let out a low breath. “Maybe this baby is a Christmas miracle,” she said. “Sent to save his parents from making a huge mistake.”

Weaver snorted. “You got pregnant in the summer.”

“A Fourth of July miracle then,” she groused.

Weaver turned his face, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“Maybe so,” he agreed.

It must be getting on toward midnight. Belle felt exhausted, drained from the day and the emotionally taxing evening. You’d never know it was Christmas Eve from Weaver’s apartment. He’d never been big on holidays and without her he hadn’t even bothered with a tree. But it was Christmas Eve, maybe even Christmas day by now though Belle’s phone was still in her coat pocket on the living room floor and she couldn’t check.

Belle pulled her hand out of Weaver's scooting back against the pillows and pulling the quilts up over herself. The sheets were cold, stinging her through her clothes and she wanted Weaver's warmth beside her. 

"Come here," she said, holding her hand out to him. Weaver stood up, shrugging his leather jacket off before climbing across the bed to the other side, lying on top of the covers. 

"It's cold. I'm pregnant. I love you," she reiterated. "You're not overstepping to get under the covers with me." 

Weaver rolled his eyes as he did what she said, pulling the covers up over himself and scooting in next to her. 

Belle rolled on to her side, pulling Weaver up behind her and placing his big hand on her belly. She felt rather than heard the sharp intake of breath behind her as there was a flutter from within her womb against Weaver's hand. 

"There he is," she said drowsily, her exhaustion catching up to her now that she was warm and comfortable. "Say hello to daddy." 

"Hello, baby," Weaver said before pressing a kiss to Belle's shoulder. "I'm your Papa." 

Belle smiled at that. Papa. It suited him. 

“Merry Christmas, Jimmy.”

He pressed another kiss to her shoulder, his hand still splayed across her stomach. 

“Merry Christmas, Belle.”


End file.
